


Out of the Fire (The Flight Plan Remix)

by Flora (florahart)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/Flora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the accusation is true, then Merlin can rescue himself, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Fire (The Flight Plan Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Netgirl_y2k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Five Times Arthur Pendragon Did Something Unexpected](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2907) by netgirl_y2k. 



> This is a remix of one of the things in a five-things fic. The original work is #2 of the five in the linked post. Taken collectively, the five things point toward an Arthur/Gwen relationship, and this points perhaps toward Arthur/Merlin if you squint a little. References to violence, not particularly explicit.

If the accusation is true, then Merlin can rescue himself, right? He doesn't need Arthur to do anything unseemly. Anything controversial. He's a magician or a wizard or whatever term is currently in style. "Hey, Merlin," Arthur begins automatically, glancing over his shoulder and intending to ask if there is a preferred or popular term among those who can do magic. "Oh." Well, he supposes that answers the question of whether he believes it; why else would Merlin _know_?

Unless he just keeps his ridiculous ears to the ground about everything even when it's not directly of interest to Arthur.

Which he might do; they _are_ ridiculous. They match his too-long arms always sticking out at the cuffs and his overdeveloped sense of, oh, justice, empathy, take your pick. Everything except how to behave in a manner befitting a common servant--and how not get caught doing magic in Uther Pendragon's court, apparently

Arthur sighs. He's tried a hundred times to teach Merlin that timing is everything in battle. Timing and strategy and attention to detail. If only he'd kept the whole thing quiet just a couple more years! Uther had been starting to come around. A little. If by coming around one means only becoming enraged enough to turn red, without the pulsing vein, at the notion of magic in his court.

Still, progress. Not to be discounted, and all undone all over again now. Uther's never going to relent again.

Arthur goes back to considering the situation. _Magic_. Merlin doing _magic_. Arthur half-expects two or three of the younger knights to pop up suddenly and explain the joke, but he knows that's unlikely. It wouldn't be funny to Uther, and Arthur knows no one in his right mind would take that risk.

Also, he might have to kill them himself for causing him all this distress.

But the entire situation is so completely impossible he can't quite work out what else to think. He feels slow and stupid as he tries, because usually he would shout at Merlin until it all came together, or bicker with him, or just say a few words and let Merlin say a few back, and even though he's just now determined that can't work with Merlin in the dungeons, he's barely able to keep from trying it anyway.

Who knew? Apparently Merlin has grown on him. And not because of any magic; Arthur would know, right? Wouldn't he? He sits down to think about this, to cast back looking for any sign of Merlin doing magic on him. He'd feel it if it was another spell, like the Changeling, like his father with the troll, right? Maybe not, but he's had the experience before, this time, and he thinks he'd at least be aware of ...something.

The door opens while he's lost far down that line of thought, and his father comes through, spying him immediately and beckoning even as Arthur is still pretending not to have just been startled half off his chair. "Come along, Arthur. We've the work of the kingdom to see to"

The work of a kingdom. Execution, and with it, the feeding of fear. Excellent.

Arthur manages a half-hearted smile and walks with his father to the cloud-covered courtyard; the pyre is prepared and Merlin is being bound to the great pole in the center as they arrive and sit. Or rather, the guards are are attempting to bind him. Merlin is throwing an elbow, desperate, and catching the one on the left in the collarbone.

It's a good hit, and Arthur feels a surge of pride that after all this time (and no small amount of explaining and demonstrating, on Arthur's part), Merlin's finally picked up enough fighting moves to hold his own. Enough to fight this physically, squirming and biting and trying to claw or catch any point of weakness. Which is odd; why isn't he just exploding things and blasting out windows? Why isn't he striking down the men who would bind him?

...What if it isn't true? What if Merlin is exactly what he seems to be: a scrawny, skinny servant who pushes Arthur to be better for no good reason?

No, it must be true. There's no other explanation, now that it's on his mind, for all the times he's thought he was terribly wounded and then turned out to have just a scratch. The explanation of Merlin's wizardly interference would be both good and bad; it would mean Arthur's a lot more vulnerable than he's come to believe, but also a lot less of a crybaby about tiny hurts.

It suggests Merlin has been there all along, saving him, helping him, serving him, and if he's magic there's no reason why he should have done, except that he believes the things he says, about Arthur's destiny, about the things he holds important. It's a little bit stunning to consider that in all the years Merlin has been polishing his boots and serving him chicken (and the occasional rat), it's been because he wants to. Stunning, and maybe humbling.

Arthur sits there, his face feeling like stone, like if he moves in the smallest degree it will hurt, and watches Merlin continue to try to hold off two burly guards with his fists and feet. He bites his lip as the one on the left delivers a vicious backhand to pay him back for the collarbone, a strike to Merlin's high cheekbone that will bruise terribly, brown and blue around an eye swelled shut, raw where the skin splits from the swelling before he can get a cool cloth on it.

Arthur swallows. No, that won't happen.

The injury _would_ bruise terribly, the skin _would_ split, but it never will, will it, if--

He cuts the thought off with an instant of brutal determination, and returns to just sitting, to being stone. He doesn't know what else to do. Uther is next to him, shouting out his approval, and all around, there are knights and courtiers, and all of them are watching Merlin sag suddenly under the repeated blows.

It's only a few seconds, perhaps, that he's stunned, possibly unconscious or maybe just exhausted, but it's long enough for the other guard to bring both bony wrists behind the post, and then there's thick rope, around and around, wrists and a knot and around the waist, like Merlin might somehow arch his back hard enough to avoid the flame.

The smoke is coming up as the guards step down, and in a moment Arthur can smell the wood charring, can hear it cracking and sparking already.

Have they used magic to accelerate the fire? Uther wouldn't, would he? Arthur sneaks a sidelong glance at his father. Uther is watching, his expression appropriately grim and resigned and it's not like he's happy about this, but he's also never going to make a move to stop it. He's also secretly pleased to be ridding his kingdom again of the scourge of magic, even if it means this. No, there's no magic in the fire, but yes, he's going to let Merlin burn. Arthur looks away, catches Gwen's horrified eyes across the crowd, and knows he has to do something. Not that he has any idea _what_ ; the fire is already burning unchecked.

A flame licks up through the wood as high as Merlin's shoulder and far too close to his baggy trousers, and another crackle comes from somewhere deep in the pile. Merlin's shoulders shrug and writhe as he tries to free his hands, his expression urgent and focused, his movements deliberate but verging on panic, and with the third crackle and snap Arthur's up before he can think this through.

He _is_ thinking by the time he evades his father's startled grasp, and he's thinking harder as he leaps and runs, dodging knights and looking feverishly about. The closer he gets to the fire, now practically roaring, the less anyone seems to want to run into it with him so he moves faster, and it just takes one more good jump and he's there.

This is the worst plan he's ever had. His cloak is on fire in a second, and he feels the heat of the flame through his trousers, but when he looks up, Merlin's staring right at him, eyes gone gold and inhuman as he chants something Arthur can't hear over the constant crack and groan under his scorching feet, and the heat recedes.

"You _idiot_ ," he says. Shouts, actually. "To save _me_ , you'll prove it, but--"

Merlin doesn't answer, his head lolling, and it occurs to Arthur that maybe magic is hard work, that maybe that was the one burst of it Merlin had in him, that maybe by leaping in to save him he has _cost_ him the opportunity to escape.

Maybe he was just biding his time.

Well, that won't do at all.

He still feels cool and untouched, and if the smoke is an annoyance, it's not intolerable, so he heads up through the flame, pulling a knife from his belt and slicing the thick rope with three good cuts. Merlin slumps forward and Arthur just catches him before he falls into the fire.

Nothing is complicated, after that; he hoists Merlin onto his shoulder, his clothes hot and smoking, and runs for the door in past kitchens and from there up the stairs into the maze of rooms above.

Merlin stirs on his shoulder. "What, the world, do tha' for?"

"You were burning! To death! For saving children!" He shakes his head. "You'd have done the same for me."

Merlin mumbles something unintelligible, and Arthur finds a room he can barricade. He drops Merlin onto the bed, which is hardly more than a pallet but is at least not entirely made of rocks, and considers his options.

He's nearly sure the pursuit that must be coming hasn't worked out where he's gone yet; he can't hear anyone, and the stairs are creaky. In that case... "I'll be right back, Merlin. Stay."

Merlin opens his eyes, alarmed, but Arthur just grins and dashes across to the next room, and the one beside that, grabbing the pitchers on their tables and--well that's lucky--an uneaten but reasonably fresh breakfast tray. He's back before Merlin manages anything more than just sitting up. "I said, stay. I'm gathering supplies." He makes one more foray into the third room on this level (one full pitcher, two good knives, and a rather wizened apple) and returns, then closes the door quietly, pushes the wardrobe halfway across it, and starts organizing.

Merlin sits on the bed. "Arthur." His voice is gruff, burned, and Arthur looks up.

"Don't talk," he says. "Shh." He adds in a whisper, "Quiet while they look. Right?"

Merlin nods. His cheek is swelling and splitting, and Arthur bites back a grin as he returns to lining up the pitchers and other items along the wall. When the table is empty, he looks up again. "I don't suppose you can either help lift this, or make it any lighter?"

Merlin blinks, stands woozily, and barely manages to lift one end, just enough that there's no scrape as they move it against the door as well.

Arthur looks at him again and puts him back to bed. "Come on," he says." He pulls his shirt over his head and looks at it in dismay; it's sooty and smeared, and clearly it won't do for Merlin's wound. He tosses it aside and slices a wide strip off the bed-cover with his own knife, which is rapidly dulling now, then wets the cloth with the little water in the first pitcher and sits next to Merlin on the bed. Washing the skin around Merlin's eye feels oddly intimate, but it makes him smile again that he can. "Didn't think you'd..." He stops midway, then ducks his chin down. "I was thinking this would swell, and then that you wouldn't live that long. Why didn't you, you know..." He re-wets the cloth and wrings it out into the bowl, then goes back to bathing Merlin's face with one hand and wiggles the fingers on the other. "Do anything?"

Merlin's eyes are unfocused and Arthur doesn't like his breathing; he's obviously more hurt than just this one blow. "Would have proved..." he starts. "Then my head, and then I forgot how, and--"

"Yes, but when I got there..." Arthur shakes his head and leans back to look at his handiwork. The swelling isn't any better, but at least Merlin's face is clean as his eyes fall shut. He keeps working silently, wiping away the sweaty grime from Merlin's neck and shoulders. "That's it," he says, so low it's barely a whisper. "You lie there and be useless, like usual. Maybe sometimes there's a reason."

When the guards start hammering on the door with purpose, Arthur ceases all efforts to be quiet and pushes the bed such that it further braces the wardrobe. He takes up a spot next to the single window, waiting for someone to try to make their way in, and considers his strategy as he nibbles on the rather stale roll from the tray, then eventually, when the pounding on the door lets up for a while, takes up pacing.

Eventually, the shadows change, and he's drunk most of one pitcher--apparently leaping into a fire will make a man thirsty--and it occurs to him he didn't make Merlin drink anything. He uses the chamberpot hurriedly, considering the remaining water and how to wake Merlin enough he won't choke.

Probably it would be easier with magic. Now if only Merlin weren't-- no help for it, though. He goes to the window and looks about haphazardly, then dumps the chamberpot and ducks back in.

The shrieks from below indicate he might have been more careful, but they also wake Merlin, and Arthur smiles at him.

"Why are you emptying your own chamberpot?" he asks. He sounds parched, and also confused and slow.

"Because," Arthur says, starting to speak to him like a child and then thinking better of it and letting his tone show the seriousness of the situation. "Merlin--we can't leave this room."

Merlin considers that for a minute, his fingers coming up to touch the enormous knot on his cheek. "You dragged me off the pyre."

"Kind of."

"And brought me here. And washed my face." He sits up and scoots back to lean on the bed frame. "You looked after me." He sounds pleased and fond and surprised. Arthur likes the way it makes him feel.

"You'd have done the same for me," he says. He'd said it before, on the way up the noisy stairs, but then he was frustrated, brusque. Now, it feels like he's teasing. "Wouldn't you?"

Merlin looks at him for a long minute. "I can probably get us out of here," he says. "Will that do?"

"You should have some water first. Eat something." Arthur picks up the pitcher and sloshes the water, but pours enough into a cup. "Is magic difficult? I mean, does it require a lot of energy?"

Merlin sips and sets the cup down, holding it on his belly for a moment before picking it up again. "Sometimes." The hammering on the door has returned, and Arthur's sure they've found something larger with which to hack at the wood, but Merlin isn't hurrying, and neither is he. They're in this together.

Arthur nods and picks up the tray, setting it on Merlin's lap. "I ate some already," he says. "Your turn." He hands over one of the knives and climbs over Merlin's feet to peer behind the big wardrobe. "We have perhaps five minutes."

Merlin cuts the apple in half and in half again and starts working on a quarter, holding out another one until Arthur takes it. "Fighting's work too," he says. "Where's your shirt?"

"What?"

"Your shirt. If we're getting out of here, I think you might want it a bit... reinforced."

Arthur blinks, simultaneously interpreting the words as both nonsensical and brilliant, then grins and picks up the discarded shirt. "Don't overexert on this," he says. "Some of them will still listen to me, and we might need your tricks worse later."

Merlin nods and polishes off the third apple quarter. "You saw, before?"

"What, the shiny golden eyes? Nice trick. Very... werewolfy, I suppose."

"I'll try not to bite."

"See that you do." Arthur holds out the shirt, and ruffles Merlin's hair when he takes it. "Good boy."

Merlin looks up at the hand and scowls, but he chants archaic words at the shirt, then turns around and chants at the wardrobe as well. "There, maybe we've a bit more time," he says. "And I can always revise my position on biting."

Arthur pulls the shirt over his head. It feels ordinary, and yet somehow more substantial. "We'll talk about biting later," he says. "Now, do you need to eat more?"

Merlin scoops up the rest of the food--cheese, a couple more rolls, another apple--and rummages in the wardrobe itself for a bag to carry them, at which Arthur feels rather like slapping his forehead; of _course_ this room might have supplies as well. Merlin wraps up the food and tucks it away along with the knife, then packs in four shirts and a bedraggled pair of trousers as well. "I said I have a thought about getting out," he says, too casually, eyes focused on the bag.

"Oh?" Arthur wants to hear it, and knows all at once that it's always been the fact that Merlin has ideas too that has made his plans work so well.

"Yes." Merlin shrugs, again casual, although he sounds nervous and excited. "Tell me, how do you feel about dragons as a mode of transport?"

Arthur hears the noise emanating from his throat and nose, a surprised little thing that makes him sound like a wounded duck, and clears his throat. "Er. A dragon?"

"Very large flying creature, breathes fire, good for escaping from a high window?"

"And you've ridden one before."

"Perhaps." Merlin meets Arthur's eyes slowly. "It might be there are a number of things I should tell you," he says, "But maybe first--"

"We should see about acquiring a dragon." Arthur's stomach is one great big knot, and his knees feel oddly unstable at the notion he's about to ride a magical creature with a magical man to escape his father's decidedly unmagical rule, but he wets his lips slowly, and nods. "Then we should do that."


End file.
